Until morning breaks
by Valhalla
Summary: Charlotte takes things in the moment. Charlotte/Daniel, vague S4.


**Title:** Until morning breaks  
**Characters/Pairings:** Charlotte/Daniel  
**Rating:** M  
**Summary:** Charlotte takes things in the moment.  
**Spoilers:** Vague S4.  
**Disclaimer:** Not mine.  
**A/N:** Written for Livejournal's lostsquee Lost Fic Battle and the prompt _electricity_.

----

It's the storm, is what she tells herself.

Just the thunder keeping her awake, and her cabin thick with stale air thanks to the broken-down fans, and a late-night restlessness she can't shake, cooped up with nothing to do and half the crew in a frenzy trying to get the power back on. That's all.

Because she is _not_ just ambling into Daniel's room in the dead of night, floor freezing against the soles of her feet, and she is certainly not feeling the weight of his wool blanket scratch along her thigh as she levels herself against the mattress and she is _definitely_ not leaning across his body -- curled in sleep and shifting with each breath -- to whisper his name, pulling him from his dreams for any other reason.

The thunder's still rumbling, another flicker lighting up the night sky; _it's phenomena resulting from the presence and flow of electric charge_, Dan had told her, sharing a half-cold cup of coffee, the only item grabbed before a final wave rocked the ship, storm bearing down on them and swells frosted with lightning's white light, engine chugging to a dead stop, power gone.

She followed the line of his arm out past the galley window; _can't believe it's such a simple thing, is all. Causing that_.

He'd smiled, ducking his head -- _it's not so simple_ -- and no, she'd reconsidered, watching his cheeks grow warm, maybe it's really not.

"Daniel." Her voice is soft.

"Charlotte? What --"

She shifts forward, unthinking and resolute and hand against his jaw; Dan sucks in a breath and they fumble into a kiss, teeth grazing, painful, hair caught in the strap of her tank top and this was all much sexier in her head, Charlotte thinks absently, knocking the back of her skull against the top bunk -- _ow_, she hisses, finds an already-rising bruise; Dan winces in sympathy -- trying to draw him closer. Her hands slip under the hem of her shirt, pull it up and off (the rest, after; wrestles with the waistband of his shorts, too), stills his wide-eyed stare with another kiss and guides him back on the bed.

Soon, she breaks his embrace, pushes back his hands and traps them -- upturned, above his head -- under hers, thumbs digging hard against the soft skin of his wrists, pulse ratcheting against the pads of her fingers. Because she doesn't want that, want his touch, a reminder that there's something after this, that this spark (there's another flash outside, clap of thunder in its wake; _an atmospheric discharge_, Dan had said) won't just dim and die once the storm clears and morning breaks.

Like so much lately -- she slides down on him, gasp matching his, heat building between them and all fluid motion, breathing hard against his cheek; _fundamental interaction between the magnetic field and the presence and motion of an electric charge_, he'd explained, gestures slicing air -- she's not sure what to do about that. What she can do.

His moan's more of a whimper -- strained through lips pulled back against teeth, brows creasing over heavy-lidded eyes -- makes her hips buck harder, one hand releasing Daniel's and sliding between her own thighs. Moves faster, lips almost brushing but not quite, skin now slick against his and pressure building, twisting her belly -- Daniel's body tensing, tensing -- then gritting back a rising groan, release finally filtering over her, through her (his back arches and goes slack), leaving her breathless and pressing palms against his chest, sweat burning the corners of her eyes.

She pushes back a fistful of hair, glances out the porthole near his bunk -- "lightning's stopped" -- away from his gaze, so warm and wide and uncertain and his fingers play against her hip, resisting the move; _stay_.

"Charlotte."

A low hum surges through the boat, lamps and bulbs blinking back to life in the corridor, Dan's room still bathed in almost-dawn darkness -- _stay_, he murmurs again, eyes searching across her face, early-morning light grey and muted, her arms a slow-spreading warmth around her.

(So she's not exactly sure, never sure, what to do --

-- but she does.)


End file.
